


Ohne

by RobinMistySaddle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dream Story, F/M, Incohesive narration, M/M, psychological fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 06:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12625026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinMistySaddle/pseuds/RobinMistySaddle
Summary: "Without" - used as a function word to indicate the absence or lack of something or someone





	Ohne

“I’m going to take a shower,” he announced.

“Okay,” she said, barely looking up from her reading.

Not acknowledged he headed up the stairs and into the bathroom, starting the water. Hot, so hot. Too much for him. How did she stand it so much.

The shower itself was typical. Water, soap, shampoo. When that was done, he gingerly lowered himself and sat down in the tub, letting the droplets from the showerhead dance over his skin. Over and over. 

A soft knock. She opened the door. “You’ve been in here so long,” she said in a matter-of-fact sort of way.

_Long? I took a normal shower and just sat down, leaned back against the porcelain enamel._ He looked up. “I don’t follow.”

“A shower? Not a soak? Wouldn’t that have been better?” She had pulled back the curtain slightly, gazed over him. Her eyes roamed over his body with indifference. His arms at his sides, he wanted to cover himself. He was very self-conscious oh his pasty, flabby body. “It’s like you wanted a soak, but it never happened.”

“I just– ” He couldn’t explain himself. “Ok.”

She leaned forward and slid her hand over his cheek. “You’re rough again.” It wasn’t a gentle caress, but a firm hand.

“I’ll take care of that.” He should shave. He should be professional.

She got up and left him shivering in the bathtub. “Yes,” she agreed. “Do that. You ARE a doctor, aren’t you? The last I knew that’s how you introduced yourself.”

The razor slid over his face, sliding through each whisker, but every time he ran his hand over his skin, it was still rough. He shaved, but the blade caught and pulled before. The razor doing it’s job but not. _A defective razor, or is it just worn down?_ Looking in the mirror at his rough and haggard face.

When he came out, she was already in bed. “He called,” she said as she rolled over. “I guess it’s time to go running off to him.” She said nothing else and lay still.

“O-o-okay,” he stuttered. “I don’t have to...” His voice trailed off, but there was no response from her. “I’ll see you later then?” he asked as he moved in to give her a kiss, but she was not interested in that, so it was a quick peck on the cheek and then into the closet to slip on his clothes.

Cab or walk? Does it matter? Was it urgent? Does THAT matter? Probably not. He would be disappointed either way by the time he arrived. When did he call? He hadn’t heard the phone ring. He slipped his phone out of his pocket as he strode down the street. It wasn’t to his phone, which meant it was to Mary, but why not him? He considered the possibilities. None were satisfactory. Of course, if he were HIM, he’d be able to reason out the logic for this little game that he was playing now, but he wasn’t so he knew that it would escape his reasoning.

A call to Mary, but looking for him. He needed a stooge, like a Lestrade or a Hooper, used in each their own special way, but only in that way. Why did he bother?

He actually wasn’t intending to go to 221B, despite the beck and call, but as though pulled by some unseen force he ended up there anyway. Crooked knocker again. He didn’t care, but were he to straighten it, it would drive him mad. It wasn’t just his brother who would passive aggressively get on his nerves; he was as guilty of it as well. Not that he wanted to be considered in the same breath as that sniveling, bloated, gas bag of questionable moral standards.

“Yes?” He said after he climbed the stairs to the flat. 

Sherlock sat in his chair, barely moving, not evening responding. 

He sat down. 

“Have you...” Sherlock started, but didn’t finish, the question hanging out there, but he was unable to fill in the blank. It was pure ambiguousness. 

He didn’t answer immediately, but waited. _How long?_ “Yes,” he said definitely, and then trailed back, “...but...no?”

“Hmm.” Tapping of his fingers. His ever tapping of his fingers, considering the littlest minutia. _What ever could he be considering?_ He didn’t know. He still wasn’t sure why he was there.

“Well, then,” Sherlock commanded, stopping to look at him, “bedroom. Now.”

In the bedroom, he undressed. Sherlock didn’t have to say anything. He knew it’s what he wanted. Sherlock was naked as well. His member was already turgid. Kissing, rough and hard, he wasn’t in charge. He reacted. He accepted. _This is how it’s going to go._

It wasn’t like with Mary. Maybe it was. He just went with it. Naked bodies rubbing against each other, tongues in each other’s mouths and their hands and fingers everywhere. He enjoyed it, but didn’t want it to happen, yet he let it, not saying anything. 

Sherlock spun him around. He could feel his hot breath on his neck and back as Sherlock’s hand traced his back, down his spine, parting his buttocks. Coldness, making him shiver, from the slickness that Sherlock pushed into him. He didn’t stop him.

Slick fingers deep as though he was prepping him. Clinical. Precise.

There was no talking. He placed his hand on the bed, knowing what would come next. Sherlock pressed his body against him, his muscles taut, his ragged breath was hot on his shoulder as one of his hands spread his buttocks and the other held his cock, probing until it pushed into him, not much resistance, but some. Sherlock’s hands went to his hips as his cock stretched him open as it slid deep into him.

_Is this what Mary feels?_ He let Sherlock have his way. His own cock was hard, jerking slightly with every thrust. He pushed back to meet him. _Am I sure that Mary reacts this way, wanting me?_ He adjusted his arms so that he could bend forward better to accept him. _Maybe she just accepts this as part of being married._

Sherlock moved his hands to his shoulders and the thrusts became more forceful. _Different, very different._ He blinked. _Am I analyzing this?_

He closed his eyes. It was over quickly. Sherlock had his release. Practically pro forma. Still no talking. He quickly got dressed. “So...” he said, drawing out the word.

Sherlock peered at him. “You’re still here?”

He looked around. “Is that it?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “You were expecting more? Did you want more? Was it not enough for you?” he pressed.

He blinked. “But Mary said you called.”

“Did you confirm that?” Sherlock replied.

“Well-”

“Well,” Sherlock mocked.

Standing in front of the door to 221B. Crooked knocker again. Was he there before? Why did it seem like he was there before? Was it all in his head? Repeating himself. Or an echo.

“Yes?” He said after he climbed the stairs to the flat. Echo.

Sherlock sat in his chair, barely moving, not evening responding. Echo.

He sat down. Echo.

“Have you...” Sherlock started, but didn’t finish, the question hanging out there, but he was unable to fill in the blank. It was pure ambiguousness. Echo.

He didn’t answer immediately, but waited. How long? “Yes,” he said definitely, and then trailed back, “...but...no?” Echo.

“Hmm.” Tapping of his fingers. His ever tapping of his fingers, considering the littlest minutia. _What ever could he be considering?_ He didn’t know. He still wasn’t sure why he was there. Echo.

Standing in front of the door to 221B. Crooked knocker again. Was he there before? Why did it seem like he was there before? Was it all in his head? Repeating himself. Or an echo.

“Yes?” He said after he climbed the stairs to the flat. Echo.

Sherlock sat in his chair, barely moving, not evening responding. Echo.

He sat down. Echo.

“Have you...” Sherlock started, but didn’t finish, the question hanging out there, but he was unable to fill in the blank. It was pure ambiguousness. Echo.

“Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrggggggggggggg!” he erupted, clenching fists, nails into palms, enough to mark, not enough for blood. “Am I going mad?” he demanded. Sherlock stared. Different, not an echo. “What next? Huh?” Not an echo.

Sherlock was nonplused. “Get a hold of yourself.” Not an echo.

“What’s going on? How many times have I come here tonight?” John glanced around frantically. Time ticking by slowly. The hands on the clock the mantle weren’t moving. Not an echo.

Standing in front of the door to 221B. He pivoted away.

His mobile rang. “Mary?”

“It’s Molly.” The voice soft and sweet. “Aren’t you coming?”

Walking down the street, dodging pedestrians. _Where did they all come from?_ A salmon swimming up river, pulling his arms in tight to push his way through the mass of humans swarming.

“Aren’t. You. Coming?” Insistent. Demanding. “Or should I tell your wife? You know what I would tell her. She wouldn’t like it.”

“I’m on my way.” Thoughts racing. _What as there to tell?_ There was nothing to tell. Curious and scared. Nothing to be scared of. Scared. Mary wasn’t in the best of moods when he left. If Molly said something, anything, would it make it even worse?

He looked around. He was still in front of 221B, penned in on all sides, pushed back. A dash for the kerb. Cab. From Baker Street to Molly’s flat. He was there sooner than he expected. 

Standing in front of the door to Molly’s flat. “Oh God, not again,” he whispered. He knocked. She opened it. Loose satin robe, barely tied shut. He could see...he quickly glanced up and away. Molly softly slipped back down the hall. He cautiously followed her, the door clicking shut behind him. 

She was stretched out on the couch. Low lights. He stood silently across the room. “Well?” she pouted.

He licked his lips nervously. “I don’t know why I’m here. Mary said Sherlock wanted me, only...”

She giggled. “She can’t tell the difference between me and Sherlock?” She arched her back seductively. “I’m pretty sure she knows the difference.” The robe slipped open, off her shoulder, baring her breasts.

He sighed. “Fine, What do you want?”

She sat up. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

Gone was the seductress. “But if you called me...”

“I did nothing of the sort.” She was in the kitchen in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans.

“I’m going,” he said. “I don’t care who you call. Tell them anything you like.” Back out the door, onto the empty street. He checked his watch. Late, very late. He wasn’t going to find a cab here at this time of night. 

Mobile ringing. Not answering. Mobile ringing. Still not answering. Mobile ringing. Mobile ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. One long, continuous ring. Not stopping. No voicemail. Just ringing. His steps faster. Going to... 

He stopped. He didn’t know. Where was he going? Home? That should be the place, lie down, sleep. But was it? No other place to go.

At the Thames. His mobile was still ringing. He was barely aware of the constant sound, just blending into background noise, almost lulling him to sleep. Drop it in the Thames? He’d just have to get a new one. Tempting.

Moonless, starless sky. Thick, heavy clouds blanketed the city. Suffocating. He felt that if he pushed out to the edges of London, the clouds would descend to the ground and there would be no leaving. He was trapped here. This wasn’t anything new. He had always been trapped here. 

Here? Where exactly was here? Was he sure where he was? Could he trust himself to know that this was London? He assumed. Experience taught him. What was his experience? Experience taught him nothing tonight. He experienced, but he didn’t. None of it made any sense.

He opened the door to his flat. Mary was asleep in bed. He quietly changed and slid in next to her. Dark room, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, not sleeping. He was unsure why he didn’t want to go to sleep, but he fought the urge. There was nothing in sleep for him. But nothing in waking either.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to check out my other works


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